Got Sherlock
by Damn-The-Jam
Summary: Sequel to the Reichenbach Fall. It's hard for John to overcome the death of Sherlock Holmes. He is at a loss, unsure what to feel - what to do. But when someone presents him with a hard-hitting case of brutal murder, John finds himself enveloped in all the things he didn't miss when around the detective. Misery and Mystery.
1. Chapter 1

Six months have passed since… since that day. I've been at a loss – unsure what to do, what to feel. He was my best friend – the best man – I'd ever come to known, and despite his many irritating vices, he provided my day with some spice. Now hours pass blandly; bleakly, refusing to run past at any decent pace. On many occasions I have cursed time itself, seemingly certain that it is simply taunting me and playing a sick game. A game I am almost certainly destined to lose, by the state of my life currently.

It's no exaggeration when I say it's in rags and ruins. I'm not sure what to do with myself, and others around me, for that matter. I feel like being hostile – judgemental as Sherlock so often was. Yet would that truly make me feel any better, or simply stir up old memories and feelings? I could always isolate myself from public scrutiny. That way I wouldn't have to worry about anything else but the things that concern me. I could pass the time writing, as I have been doing the past six months – that seems to have worked. Yet even as I dump all my loose thoughts onto this paper, I feel as if there is some duty I need to fulfil.

So I sit in his armchair, scrawling down all my emotions with blue ink. In no doubt, Sherlock would have fired deductions at me, telling me where the pen came from, or what wood, and in which forest, the paper originated. I can't help but feel a longing for his aquiline presence to return. I want him at my side so I can utter those few words in which I have been yearning to whisper into his ear since we met.

I was chewing the end of my pen in deep thought when I heard the contact of bony knuckles against the door. Sitting silently, I watched the door keenly for a few seconds, attempting to figure out of who it may be. Yet my mind is not as complex as his was. I figure I should just stop trying to be alike to him, when Mrs Hudson walks through the door with a slight limp.

"Hip no better?" I enquire selflessly, genuine concern leaking into my words.

"Worse," she utters using only a singular syllable. Stopping just opposite me, she teeters slightly on the balls of her feet through unbalance before composing herself once more. Dizzy spells in her (such as this one just described) makes me feel at an unease for her health. Then she walks forward, her elbows tucked into her side whilst her wrists flex from the movement.

"Would you like some tea, John?" I incline my head to the side to look at her, and then give a sharp nod of approval. She smiles at me sweetly before striding into the kitchen, which was once littered with scientific equipment and studies. It took me three months to truly accept his death. By that time Mrs Hudson had nearly finished clearing out all his stuff, and I was only needed for the few odds and ends left. Even now, I try to envision what Sherlock would have been doing – what experiment he would have been conducting. When I fail to imagine it, I am left with a deep longing to watch the man at his work again, as I had been doing for roughly a year prior.

I must have been dragged into a trance, for the next thing I remember is Mrs Hudson placing my tea down near me. Blinking heavily, I recovered my senses and thanked my landlady sincerely. Even though I am falling short of money now, Mrs Hudson has agreed to let me stay for a lower rate – she claimed she was still in Sherlock's debt for the execution of her husband. She seems to think that there was something deeper between the consulting detective and me– and although she might be right – I would never admit such a thing to her.

"John, you still look terrible!" Stated Mrs Hudson boldly yet sympathetically, her eyebrows raised and her eyes watery. Had she been crying? What over – surely not me? I found her eye contact and sought a serious stare for a handful of seconds, then reassured her in a monotone voice that I was okay. She didn't seem to believe me. Glancing at my steaming tea, Mrs Hudson broke the contact, but stood stock-still on the spot. It's as if she wants to say something, but simply cannot bring herself to expose it to me whilst I'm in this state.

"What is it?" I enquire after observing her awkward behaviour for a little longer. When she heard my cracked voice, my landlady seemed to grow worse in her mood, and had started to sniff as if bearing a cold. There remained a silence in the flat for a minute; I dared not to push her for an answer. She too had not been the same since Sherlock's death, even if she did show it more subtly than I did.

"Nothing…" Uttered she in two syllables. She seemed to sigh as she spoke, as if fed up with something. Her vacant eyes held some emotion at last, but instead of happiness, I would infer it be something close to pent-up agitation. Muscles in her arms twitched as she contemplated the idea of walking away. Yet something held her firm in the spot opposite to me. A thought – a duty she needed to complete, perhaps?

"Need a favour from me?" She did seem to be asking after something; waiting for something.

"Oh no, John, nothing needs doing."

At her reply I am left puzzled. Why is she lingering if nothing needs to be done, then? Maybe there is something that she needs to tell me – perhaps I am getting kicked out of 221B after all.

"What do you want to say to me, Mrs Hudson?" I finally ask, growing weary of not knowing what seems to be troubling her. When she hears my words, however, I seem to provoke the opposite to what I had hoped to achieve. With one final sniffle, Mrs Hudson pivoted to turn her back to me and walked away. I wanted to shout after her, to call her name in demand she returns. Yet my throat is too dry. I simply can't form any words. So I slump uselessly into his armchair, and enter myself into a dizzying selection of thoughts about Sherlock Holmes – the clever detective in the funny hat.


	2. Chapter 2

I shuffle uneasily under my covers, tired and groggy, fed up with the normality my life has resolved to. I miss the old days of finding absurd cases for my sociopathic companion to solve. I yearn the hours of which he would spend deducing anything he could about me. Although I am certain I don't miss his vices, the man was so wonderfully unique that without him I feel isolated – incomplete.

Pushing my palms into the mattress, I force myself to sit up. My head is still faint, and I blink heavily as to remove any remaining sleep from my eyes. The curtains have already been drawn; Mrs Hudson had probably tended to it. Looks like she wasn't as mad with me as I had first dreaded. Perhaps she wasn't even annoyed at me at all. Perhaps it was all in my head.

A ping. Snapping my eyes around the room, I felt my head dizzying with a flood of paranoid thoughts. My landlady still wouldn't be here, for my alarm said it was twelve in the morning on the Sunday, and surely she would be residing in her weekly shop. Although she visited the store on and off during the week, at this time she always went – it was a routine she is yet to break. So with her out of the question, who the hell was in my flat?

"Hello?" It was a failed attempt at keeping calm – my vocals were strained and high-pitched, almost alike to a woman's. I waited a minute, anxious, paranoid, and above all else, hopeful. Why? I anticipated that whoever was in the flat would liven up my day. That they would beckon my thoughts away from my beloved detective, and provide some new things for me to contemplate.

After a minute of prolonged silence, I heard a cupboard slam shut and a jar click open. Someone was definitely here, not burgling, but making themselves right at home. Since no one had answered me, and the curiosity inside of me was at a peak, I strode through the narrow corridor to get to the kitchen.

'Lestrade?" I exclaimed, genuine shock from seeing his stature leaking into my dialogue. Upon hearing his name, he pivoted to face me and delivered his usual charming smile, eyes cheeky in their quick scan over me. He wore a brown pea coat with his collar turned down and a black and blue scarf wrapped around his neck. I refrained from comparing him to Sherlock, even if they were somehow alike. The coat was brown and the scarf held black shades, not to mention the state of his collar – it didn't resemble him one bit. No.

"Oh, well hi there, John!" Exclaimed he, the normality of his words somehow patronizing.

"'Hi?' Is that it?"

"Yes, unless you want a hug?"

At this I reversed a step, warding off a smile that was so eager to exploit my features. I couldn't laugh, not now. He had not seen me since 'his' death, and I don't want to turn this encounter into a joke. It isn't funny.

"Obviously not then," he spoke begrudgingly, as if I'd put a foot wrong. Rolling his eyes and breaking the eye contact, Greg shuffled his weight, as if looking for something more to say.

"Why are you here?" My eyes had broken from his face, too, and so I was studying the kitchen, of which was cluttered with two mugs, spoons, and four teabags. Steam rolled from the spout of the kettle, indicating that it was fully boiled. A sigh from Lestrade broke as he acknowledged my question, but instead of answering me he poured the hot water into the teapot and clicked the lid into place.

"I have a request" He finally replied, fingers rhythmically tapping upon the fabric of his coat, waiting for the tea to brew.

"From who?"

"Me,"

"What is it?" I enquired swiftly, eager now to find out. Yet Lestrade paused in his dialogue, as if unsure of how to word what he was to say next. I crossed my arms across my chest and leaned even deeper into the doorframe. He observed, reacted with a raise of his eyebrow, adjusted his scarf and then spoke. I shouldn't have pushed him for an answer.

"A murder? You want me to help you with a murder?"

"Oh come on, John, you're an army doctor, for god sake! You're used to these things! I don't care if you can't help, just take a look at it and try."

"But I'm not 'him'. I can't deduce things from thin air – I'm normal… stupid,"

"You're human. Which is more than Sherlock ever was."

His words tore through my heart like a bullet would flesh. Had he actually just said that? Called Sherlock Holmes inhuman? Slanted his name in the very flat he used to reside in? At that moment I wanted to throttle him - to make him swallow his words. Make him regret ever asking such a damned thing, and, more importantly, to get him out of 221B.

Yet after a minute, my initial rage had succumbed to reason. He hadn't said it out of spite, but out of his own opinion. To many people, Sherlock appeared to be a machine, only able to empathize with himself. There was no doubting that I had also thought it once.

"Sorry, John – too soon?" He had realized his words, so it seemed, and had tried to make amends. It would do. Wanting to forget all about it, I pressed him for details regarding the murder. Greg seemed to understand, and so he ran through the briefing again.

"So, the victim is in his late twenties, medium brown hair roughly six foot tall. He was found with a single bullet wound to the head – gun unidentified. That's where you come in…"

"You want me to identify the gun?"

"Yes; we have reason to suspect that this is tied in with the war in Afghanistan… and seeing as though you were there-"

"I'd save you some research," I interrupted dryly.

"Would you mind?"

I wanted to answer him with 'of course not!' or 'sure I will!' but quite honestly, I felt far from enthusiastic about this turn of events. Sherlock had lured me back into the criminal world a year ago, eager to have me by his side. Yet it was a criminal that had so swiftly dragged him down from St Barts (and would have burnt him too, had he been given half a chance). I wish to have no more insight into the criminal classes.

"Let me think about it, please," I requested, still unable to make up my mind. There must be a family grieving for his loss, possibly a fiancée out there, too. It would speed things up for them, and it would keep my mind from straying. Yet doubt smothered the positive thoughts. I haven't even picked up a crime novel since his passing, let alone contemplated the idea of assisting with one.

Snapping myself back to reality, I peel my eyes from the ground to look at Lestrade, hopeful that he would agree and depart. No such luck came my way.

"I'm sorry, but it's urgent. We either need a definite answer from you today," explained he, sympathetic in his tones. I nodded and cast my eyes to the floor once more, enabling myself to think clearly. I couldn't possibly get caught up with police investigations again, could I?

* * *

**_Okay, so I need to ask you all a favour (if anyone is even reading this!) _**

**_Could you help me with some research into firearms used in the current Afghanistan war? I don't know a thing about guns, and I wasn't going to use this idea until I realised that it was the only way I could think of to get John involved in another investigation. It's pretty critical to a plot I'm brewing, actually. So, in short, I would love your help. Even if you're alike to me and don't have the foggiest about weapons, you can still help me with the murder circumstance. ^.^ You can either review or PM me your ideas. _**

**_Thank you~_**


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